


Slow and Steady

by SailorChibi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, Fluff, Hand Job, Hurt/Comfort, I'm pretty sure John doesn't mind, M/M, Sherlock likes to take his time, Virgin!Sherlock, a bit of voyeurism, loads of reassurance, mostly because Sherlock loves to show off, sex on the sofa because of reasons, understanding!john, very slow sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-12
Updated: 2012-12-12
Packaged: 2017-11-20 23:46:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/591046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One night after a case Sherlock and John have sex. Sherlock, who was a virgin, is not prepared for how messy and overwhelming sex can be. John shows him how to slow things down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slow and Steady

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock belongs to Moffat, Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
> 
> For a [prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/20063.html?thread=122168927#t122168927) on the BBC kink meme.

When it's over, once they've both shuddered their way to completion and John has made a half-hearted swipe at the mess on Sherlock's chest with his jumper and then rolled over and fallen asleep after one last kiss, Sherlock stays awake and stares at the ceiling. He steeples his fingers under his chin and starts to think. That... had not been what he was expecting. It had been rough and demanding and fast and... _overwhelming_. His wrists still ache a little from where John had pinned him to the door, to say nothing of the pain in his arse when he shifts the wrong way and presses down too hard. It feels like the whole experience has gone by so quickly that he didn't have time to process what was happening. 

He tilts his head and looks thoughtfully at John, wondering. Is that _always_ the way it is?

He and John have just finished one of their shorter cases, one that only took a day or two to solve, but it was no less exciting just because of the amount of time it had taken. Both of them had been buzzing with adrenaline by the time they stumbled back to the flat in the early morning hours, and something that had been building steadily for the last several weeks had finally bubbled over. Sherlock's not sure what he was expecting to happen, but he supposes that in hindsight he can't really be surprised that the situation between them escalated so quickly. Certainly it was interesting, providing him with a great deal of data. Pleasurable, definitely. John is not a selfish lover and he'd made sure to bring Sherlock off before he came. 

But. In spite of all that Sherlock is not so sure that he wants it to happen again. Even now, minutes after, he finds that he’s having a difficult time remembering everything and he wishes that John had slowed down just a little. The whole experience might not be so bad if he could take his time, but in reality the chances of that happening are not high. He knows that John would back off if Sherlock so much as hints that he’s not interested but therein lays the problem: John is a sexual man. He enjoys sex on a regular basis and he'll do what it takes to find it, which means that if Sherlock wants him to stay this is going to have to happen again regardless of whether he wants it or not. 

The thought is not necessarily unpleasant - he _did_ enjoy himself and watching John come is something that he will keep with him for the rest of his life. He just hates being overwhelmed. Data is invaluable but it’s frustrating when too much is coming from every direction and his mind doesn't have time to assimilate anything before something new is happening. Sex, as far as Sherlock is concerned, is a messy rush and he’s pretty sure that’s not how it’s supposed to be. He looks at John for a long moment before pushing the covers back and sliding out of the bed. He's done research on sex in the past but never with the idea of applying it to himself personally. Perhaps it's time.

Sherlock goes downstairs and searches around until he comes across his dressing gown. After wrapping it around his body he sits down with his own laptop even though John’s is closer. This isn't the kind of thing he wants John to find. He curls up on the sofa and opens up a browser, except he's not really sure what's he searching for. Everyone else seems to enjoy sex, after all. He stares pensively at the screen for a couple of minutes, frowning, before he decides to look up stories of first-time encounters. It's not like he's looking for someone else who was overwhelmed, that's nonsense, but he does want to find out the intimate details that he's missing. He wants to know how he can keep up with John without getting lost again.

John's hand on his shoulder some hours later startles him badly. He jumps and nearly topples his computer over, rescuing it from a fate on the floor just in time. John looks at him in sleepy bemusement. "New case?"

"No, just some research," Sherlock says, carefully tilting the screen so that John won't be able to see it. His heart is pounding a little. What he found didn't help one bit. Is it just him? Mycroft had told him once that they were different from everyone else but Sherlock hadn't been expecting it would matter so _much_. What if John notices? What if he leaves?

"Ah. I figured as much when I woke up and you weren't in bed." John doesn't sound bothered and Sherlock smiles uncertainly, wondering if he was supposed to stay in bed with John. Except he never sleeps for as long as John does, not unless it's the end of a really long case and his body can't keep going anymore. Is that standard etiquette after sex? Something else that everyone except for Sherlock seems to know. He makes a note to look up that sort of thing when John isn't around. In the meantime, he closes his laptop before John can get curious.

"Tea?" he says, hoping John will make it.

"Yeah yeah." Smiling affectionately, John leans down and kisses him. Sherlock happily kisses him back because he likes this, this soft contact between him and John. It makes him feel warm inside and when John pulls away his smile has gotten even bigger. He reaches out and runs a hand through Sherlock's hair, then tugs him up and kisses him again. It's all well and good until John moves closer and pushes their hips into contact. At first it’s alright, it’s not too bad, but then John shudders and reaches for the waistband of Sherlock’s bottoms. Something uncomfortably like panic wells up in Sherlock's chest and just like before he can feel himself getting overwhelmed: too much too soon, there's no time to get used to it, but it will get better yes? He just has to... has to...

His hands come up automatically and push John away as he stumbles backwards. "Mrs Hudson," he says by way of explanation and they both fall silent, listening. When John looks puzzled at the lack of sound, Sherlock shrugs. "She must have changed her mind."

"Tea, then?" John accepts the lie easily and walks into the kitchen. Sherlock doesn't follow. He sits down on the sofa, feeling cold at the realization that while the kissing had been good, very good actually, anything beyond that had been.... not good. How long will it take before John starts to notice? He's going to have to work hard to train himself out of this stupid reaction. He vows that from now on he will accept John's advances until he learns to like them. It’s got to be a matter of time until he can lose himself in pleasure too, right?

\---

Sherlock has been acting odd. Well, more oddly than he usually does, which is saying a lot for a man that can, at any point in time, be found standing over a body or parts of a body. Now generally John doesn't pay a lot of attention to what he privately calls Sherlock's mood swings, simply because Sherlock can blow hot and cold without any warning. But it's been impossible for him to ignore. Ever since That Night - and yes the capitalization is quite necessary thank you very much - he feels like things have changed between them and not in the best of ways. They haven’t talked about it, of course not, because trying to get Sherlock to talk about anything beyond deductions and crime scenes usually involves a sulk the likes of which is only seen after a visit from Mycroft, but it's there.

Every time John tries to initiate something sexual between them Sherlock finds some excuse to pull away, whether it's Mrs Hudson, one of his experiments, Lestrade, or on one rather memorable occasion because a man was about to kill a rabbit which was the key to solving a murder. Normally John would have taken this to mean that Sherlock isn't interested in, well, anything. He tries not to take it personally if that's the case because this _is_ Sherlock they're talking about. They had sex that night with John fully aware of the fact that Sherlock might decide it was too much of a distraction, or that John had been an experiment, or anything else that great bloody mind might come up with. And it's fine, really, if that's all he can have he's glad he had the opportunity for it.

But the thing is Sherlock doesn't shy away from affection. John has noticed that sometimes Sherlock seems to be, for lack of a better word, touch starved. He'll stand a little too close or let their hands brush when they walk or settle down on the couch next to John and lean over far enough so that their shoulders touch. More recently he's taken to plunking his head or feet down in John's lap and nudging until John takes the hint and starts to rub whatever appendage is pinning him down. Sherlock enjoys this moments, John's certain of it, just like he enjoys it when John cups his face and kisses him. Whether it's soft and sweet or hard and passionate Sherlock sinks into the kisses like he's a balloon and someone has popped him to let the air out. John knows him well enough to be confident that he can tell when Sherlock likes something and Sherlock definitely likes that.

It's a conundrum and he's not completely sure what to do about it. He's actually reached the point where he's beginning to think about holding the skull captive in exchange for a talk, regardless of the sulk he'll be treated to afterwards, when he gets a text from Greg asking him out for a pint. John agrees immediately. He doesn't have many friends in London and Greg's a good man. Sherlock is deeply involved with some experiment involving a worrying amount of chemicals, so John doesn't feel too badly about slipping out. Greg is already waiting with two beers by the time he gets to the bar and bloody hell it feels good to sink down across from him and not have to think about Sherlock for a while.

Then Greg, of course, brings it up.

"By the way, congrats," he says, lifting his glass.

"What?" John blinks at him. He's well into his second pint and he casts his mind back, trying to recall if they've discussed anything worth congratulating. Unless he's drunker than he realizes they haven't.

"You and Sherlock." Greg does a poor job of hiding his knowing smile by taking a gulp of beer. "I figured it was only a matter of time no matter what you said. I've never seen Sherlock respond to anyone the way he does to you. And you're the only sod crazy enough to put up with him.

They haven't told anyone but it doesn't surprise John that Greg's worked out. In spite of Sherlock's criticism, he actually is a good detective. "Yeah, cheers," he sighs, shaking his head. "But to be honest I'm not sure that _I'm_ able to put up with him sometimes either."

Greg puts his glass down. He looks serious, all traces of amusement gone. "John, if you knew what Sherlock was like before you met him you wouldn't even think of saying that. He's changed a lot. I knew him back when.... well just back, and let me say that you've done that man a world of good. Christ, I didn't think I'd ever see Sherlock open up enough to willingly take anyone into his life for more than a week, much less into his _bed_. You're a bloody miracle worker as far as I'm concerned. I was starting to think I wouldn’t live to see the day. It's about time he had someone who cared."

There’s something about the way that Greg has said that. It takes John a minute to work it out. He’s always thought that Mycroft, Irene and Moriarty had the wrong idea of it. But. He looks up, squinting, and says cautiously, “Are you... Sherlock’s not a virgin.” The implied ‘is he?’ that hangs at the end of his sentence is a bit edgy.

“Well, not anymore. We’ve got you to thank for that.” Greg chuckles. “Maybe now that he’s finally getting laid he’ll loosen up a little.”

“Don’t hold your breath.” It comes out automatically and John is too distracted to listen to how Greg responds. His stomach is churning and he suddenly feels sick but he doesn’t think it’s because of the alcohol. Sherlock’s recent behaviour, when coupled with everything he knows about the man, makes a lot of horrifying sense. Too much sense. He remembers that night in perfect detail: the feel of Sherlock’s skin beneath his, the way he’d jerked and moaned when John shoved a couple of fingers into him, his widened eyes as John pushed in. At the time he’d taken it to be nothing more than adrenaline, but now... He rapidly drains the rest of his beer and slams his glass down on the table.

Because if John’s right it means he’s fucked up royally and he has no idea how to go about fixing it.

\---

Sherlock is curled up on the couch by the time John gets home. His experiment hasn’t turned out the way he wanted it to and he’s debating on whether he should play the violin until Mrs Hudson gets annoyed or text Lestrade and beg for a case when he hears the door downstairs open. Moments later, John’s footsteps begin climbing the stairs. He pushes himself up a little, tilting his head to have a better listen. Heavier than normal with a significant little pause between each step, like John is forcing himself to keep moving, and Sherlock feels something in his chest go cold. He keeps his face calm as the door finally opens.

It only takes him a few seconds to take in the extra lines under John’s eyes and the way John’s shoulders are slumped a bit. He says loudly, “Bored.”

“What?” John looks around at him. Sherlock is gratified to see a bit of the tension ease and wonders if this means he’ll be able to coax John down onto the sofa. He likes it when John gets involved in the telly because it means Sherlock can use him as a pillow and John won’t protest or get fidgety or have the opportunity to leave. It’s disgustingly easy to fall asleep when John is his pillow.

“Tea?” he says, because the chances are the higher that John will settle in if he’s got a good cuppa. 

“Made by you?” Mouth twitching, John doesn’t bother to wait for an answer, already walking into the kitchen. Sherlock stares up at the ceiling, listening to the homey sounds of John putting water in the kettle and then getting the mugs out. Exactly six minutes later, John walks back into the room with two mugs of tea, one done exactly the way Sherlock likes it. He stands by the sofa until Sherlock sits up, and then he sits down and lets Sherlock flop over into his lap. There’s a fond smile on his face as he runs his free hand through Sherlock’s hair, seemingly not minding that the second cup of tea has been abandoned on the floor.

“What did you do while I was gone?” he asks.

“Mmm, bored,” Sherlock mutters, closing his eyes. He takes a deep breath and then adds lazily, “You were at the pub with Lestrade and had two pints. The pub was crowded and the two of you weren’t able to watch the telly so you had to listen to Lestrade talk about his ex-wife. And then a woman hit on you as you were leaving but you felt she was too young for you so you turned her down.”

John sighs a little. “I turned her down because of what’s between us,” he says patiently, and it’s only by the subtle tensing of his thighs that Sherlock knows something else is coming. “Sherlock, I want to ask you a question.”

“Go ahead,” Sherlock says. It’s only by sheer force of will that he keeps himself still. He knows he won’t like whatever John is about to ask, and judging by the way John’s hand has tightened in his hair, like John is trying to prevent him from leaving, he has good reason to be apprehensive. 

“Do you want to have sex with me again?”

It’s so far outside the realm of what Sherlock is expecting that for a moment he just opens his eyes and looks blankly up at John, wondering what brought this on. He knows that his acting skills have been failing him a little but he wasn’t expecting John to catch on so soon. That cold feeling returns to his chest and squeezes violently, causing his breath to hitch. If John is asking then he must know the answer and if he’s just trying to confirm his suspicions then does that mean he’s going to leave? Sherlock doesn’t want him to leave: the whole point of this was to get John to _stay_.

Making a split second decision, he sits up, ignoring the sharp pain from his scalp before John’s fingers relax their grip on his hair. He slings a leg over John’s thighs and straddles him and before John can say anything Sherlock kisses him. And it’s good, it really is. John is a fantastic kisser, knows just how much pressure to use and where to lick and when to nibble and oh, Sherlock really likes it when he does _that_. He moans softly, deep in his throat, because usually _John_ likes that but it has the opposite effect today. John jolts like he’s been shocked and his hands come up and pull Sherlock away.

“Hey. Hey,” he says gently, holding on when Sherlock tries to squirm away from him. “Sherlock, as much as I love kissing you, I want to talk to you. I need you to communicate with words, alright?” His lips try to form a smile but it wobbles apart. “You were a virgin, weren’t you?”

There’s no point in denying it. “Yes.”

“And I…” John sighs, cutting off whatever he was about to say. He rubs his thumb over Sherlock’s bottom lip. “I should have asked first.”

“I wanted you to,” Sherlock says, suddenly angry at both himself and John. Why can’t he just get over what happened and let John fuck him already? There’s no need for it to be such a big deal. “I want you to again. Look, go on, fuck me. I won’t stop you.” He puts his fingers to the hem of his shirt and starts to pull it up.

“No! Jesus, Sherlock.” John’s eyes are sad when he makes Sherlock stop, taking his hands and pressing them to his mouth in a light kiss. “I’m not going to have sex with you if that’s not what you want.”

“But - ” He stops himself too late and tries to turn away, not wanting to look, wanting to hide away where he doesn’t have to deal with this anymore, because life was much simpler when they were just friends. He doesn’t know how to explain to John that he _does_ want it, very much, but the physical practice of it is overwhelming. John stops him, though, and brings his head back around.

“But what?” he asks gently.

Sherlock swallows and feels the traitorous words tumbling out before he can stop them. “But then you’ll leave.”

\---

Those four words cause a long moment of silence. John can feel the colour draining from his face and he knows that if it weren’t for his hands on Sherlock’s hips the man would’ve already made a run for it. “Sherlock,” he breathes softly, stunned and saddened. Before he can say anything else, Sherlock starts fighting to get away, grabbing at John’s hands and trying to slide off of the sofa. Even more worried than before, John gets a hold of both of his wrists and pins them between Sherlock’s thighs. “Sherlock, _enough_. You’re not going anywhere.”

“Let go!” Sherlock commands. 

“No,” John says with a calm he doesn’t really feel, tightening his grip. Sherlock may be a strong man but he hasn’t had the sort of training that John does and his knees have sunk so deeply into the sofa cushions that he can’t get the traction necessary to squirm away. It takes a while before his struggles slow and he subsides, bottom resting on John’s knees, gasping for air.

John cautiously switches to holding his wrists with one hand and uses the other to cup Sherlock’s cheek so that he can’t turn away. The pain he sees in those beautiful eyes hurts. “Sherlock, tell me what’s going on. Why would you think that I’d leave if you didn’t want to have sex?”

“I deduced it,” Sherlock says. He’s sitting stiffly, uncertainty written across his face. “You’re a sexual man, John. You were hoping to have sex with Sarah by the time you’d been out on your first date. Part of the reason you broke up with her was because she made you sleep on the lilo. When we were just friends you regularly spent nights at the pub looking for women and you grew noticeably frustrated and short-tempered when more than twelve days went by without you having any luck. It stands to reason, therefore, that if you were in a relationship that isn’t fulfilling your needs you would leave and find satisfaction elsewhere.” His voice drops, becoming very quiet.

“Sherlock…” John briefly closes his eyes, his heart aching for the man in front of him. “There’s a big difference between you and Sarah or you and any of the woman I picked up.”

Sherlock looks briefly confused. “I realize I’m male but I didn’t think - ”

“No, you idiot. I love you. I didn’t love any of them,” John says gently. He watches the look of shock spread across Sherlock’s face and leans forward to kiss him. “I wouldn’t have left you even if we were just friends. I’m certainly not going to leave you because you don’t want to have sex with me.”

“There’s always something,” Sherlock mutters and swallows hard.

“You and that great bloody brain of yours,” he says affectionately. “I’ll ask you again. Do you want to have sex with me again?”

There’s a moment in which Sherlock stares at him, eyes flicking over John’s face in the way that means he’s trying to deduce as much as he can about the situation, and John keeps himself as blank as possible. He wants to know what Sherlock wants, not what Sherlock thinks John wants. If Sherlock wants a sexual relationship between them that’s fine but if he doesn’t they’ll find some way to work it out. As long as he can be with this amazing man that’s all that matters.

“Yes,” Sherlock says at last and in spite of himself John feels relieved. “But… I didn’t… I need… There’s too much… data.”

“Too much at once. We can go slower,” says John. “We don’t have to rush into anything. I’m sorry for not asking you what you wanted that night.” He feels a pang of anger at himself for not having done so. He’s pretty sure Sherlock enjoyed himself but it hurts to think of Sherlock’s actions during the past few weeks, how he tried to force himself to suffer John’s attentions, all in the name of making John happy so that he wouldn’t leave. The next person who says Sherlock is heartless is going to get punched in the face.

“You won’t be bored?” Sherlock asks suspiciously, like he thinks John might be fooling with him.

“Bored? With you around? Please.” John has an idea. He releases Sherlock’s hands and lets his weight slump back against the couch, spreading his arms wide. He’s noticed that Sherlock has tried to get close to him sometimes just so that he can run his hands along John’s chest or arms, like he’s cataloguing. “Here, have at it. You can control the pace. Do whatever you like. I’m yours.”

Sherlock’s eyes darken slightly and he lifts his hands. Slowly, like he’s worried that John might push him off, he reaches out and places them on John’s chest. His fingers explore the surface over the jumper for several minutes, his face adopting the expression that John recognizes as the one Sherlock wears when he’s filing data away in his mind palace. He stays perfectly still, trying to ignore the way his heart is beginning to race even under this gentle touch. When he came home he thought he might have fucked everything up, but here’s Sherlock willing to give him a second chance and it’s, no, _he’s_ amazing.

“Off.” Sherlock tugs at the hem of his shirt and obligingly John shifts his weight so it can be pulled off, leaving him shirtless. Though Sherlock has seen him naked before he looks at John like this is the first time and that, more than anything, makes John know he’s right. Sherlock does want this, but just like in everything else he needs to be able to go at his own pace. He looks up at Sherlock who is frozen, gaze locked onto the bare skin of John’s chest.

“You can touch,” he says gently, hoping that his desire isn’t as obvious as he thinks it probably is. “Touch me, Sherlock, if you want to.”

\---

There’s so much data, so much _possibility_ to learn something new about the confusing person that is John, that at first Sherlock isn’t really sure where to begin. His eyes linger briefly on the largest scar, the one that adorns John’s shoulder. He’s seen it before but he’s never dared to ask if he could touch, though odds are John would let him. Now he’s not sure if he should be paying attention to it when he and John are having sex, or trying to at least. There’s just so much etiquette to this that Sherlock doesn’t understand and it’s immensely frustrating.

He finally settles his hand on John’s chest, just above the ribs, his thumb close to but not quite touching a nipple. John’s skin is warm and moves faintly with the rhythm of his breathing. He’s lightly muscled, the remnants of Afghanistan and the life they share now, with just the slightest hint of a belly and a few other scars. Sherlock runs his fingers down his sides, across the stomach, up the chest to his neck and collarbones, which are more tanned thanks to additional exposure to the sun, learning what spots make John twitch and what makes him sigh. He skims his hands down, brushing over his nipples, and watches in fascination when they start to harden under his touch.

“You like it when I touch you,” he says, looking down into John’s blue eyes. It’s an obvious deduction based on John’s slightly heavier breathing and the hardness he can feel pressing against his thigh. 

“Of course I do. I like everything you do,” says John and when Sherlock smirks he adds, “Within reason.”

Sherlock rubs his thumb idly over the left nipple and pinches it lightly, then a bit harder, watching John lick his lips and try to stay silent. This slow progress is easier to tolerate than the frenzied passion of that night. He likes seeing John react to his touches, likes not being distracted so that he can catalogue them and save them away for later perusal. And as much as he wants to go over every inch of John’s body with hands and tongue, he realizes that he wants to see what John looks like when he’s going to come even more. The moment the thought occurs to him he reaches for John’s belt.

“Hang on.” John grabs his wrist, looking a bit surprised by what must seem to him as a sudden change. “Sherlock, you don’t have to -”

“I know,” Sherlock says, keeping the trace of impatience from his voice. After all this time it seems ridiculous that John hasn’t learned that he doesn’t do anything that he doesn’t want to do. He leans back a little, resting his bottom against John’s knees, and says as much.

“But you had sex with me -”

“And I wanted to,” he points out calmly. “John you didn’t rape me. We were two consenting adults. If I hadn’t wanted it I would’ve said so and I trust you would have stopped.” He stops and studies John, discomfited by the way that John is looking at him. He thinks back over what he’s said but can see nothing that would garner this kind of reaction. Unsettled, he pulls his hands away from John’s belt. 

“No. Don’t do that. It’s alright, I’m sorry.” John takes his hands and puts them back. “I was just… I kept thinking of how every time I would try to approach you over the past few days, you’d pull away and make some excuse. It bothers me that you didn’t feel you could approach me with this, Sherlock. That you thought I would leave instead of working things out with you.” John’s eyes are sad again. “Do you really believe I think so little of you?”

“I,” he starts and then stops because he doesn’t know how to finish his sentence. 

John nods, like Sherlock has actually said a lot, and then starts unbuckling his belt. He pulls it open and puts the zip down, leaving his white cotton y-fronts bare to Sherlock’s inspection. When Sherlock finally meets his eyes, John says, “I’m not going anywhere. After everything that the two of us have been through you couldn’t drive me away if you tried. I said you could touch me anywhere and I meant it, so long as you do it with the understanding that you aren’t obligated to do anything to keep me here. You could never touch me again and I would still want to be here with you.”

In spite of how determined John looks when he says, that makes it no more believable. Sherlock studies his face briefly before reaching for his underwear and gently freeing his cock. It’s long and thick with an upward curve that makes it excellent for striking Sherlock’s prostate on every stroke. He wonders if John would still stay if he climbed off right now and went to go play his violin. He doesn’t really want to, of course, but the thought does occur to him. He strokes the tip of John’s cock with one finger, wondering, how far can he push John before John snaps?

“Stop it,” John says in a low voice and Sherlock jumps, starts to pull his hand away, but John traps it, pressing it firmly against his cock. Slowly Sherlock relaxes and curls his hand to grip the shaft, his thumb and index finger curving ‘round to meet. It’s hot in his hand, a little slippery due to the amount of pre-come, and soft beneath his callused fingertips. John’s head tips back and his grip on Sherlock’s wrist relaxes, a soft moan escaping him. Sherlock watches his face, fascinated by the play of pleasure as he gives one long, slow stroke from root to tip. _This_ is something he could get used to and he wants to see more.

\---

It’s almost overwhelming. No, scratch that, it _is_ overwhelming. Sherlock has let his scientist side come out to play. His fingers skitter over John’s cock, eliciting a variety of reactions from soft groans to bucked hips to fisted hands searching desperately for something to grab onto. And through it all, those verdigris eyes never leave John’s face, and it’s clear that Sherlock is absorbing every flicker of pleasure and using it to heighten the experience, learning what makes John whimper and thrash. If John didn’t know better he would swear that Sherlock’s done this before.

But no, though the touch that at first is almost clinical slowly becomes more confident as Sherlock grows used to their position, there is still a slight hesitation there based not on his skill levels but on the fact that he’s still not wholly sure that this is enough. For this reason, John opens his eyes, half-lidded, and stares up at him, trying to communicate without words that this is more than okay, that after the talk he’d had with Lestrade he thought that he wouldn’t even be able to have this. 

“Tell me how you like it, John,” Sherlock says finally, his breath ghosting over John’s lips. “I want to learn everything about you. I want to know exactly how to make you come undone.”

“Christ,” John manages, his head spinning from a heady combination of lust and pleasure. “A bit harder, yeah, and I like having my balls played with, so it’s alright if you want to explore. But, um, rub your finger over the head - oh god!” He throws his head back, shuddering. If Sherlock keeps going like that this is going to be over embarrassingly fast.

Sherlock stops bracing himself with his other hand, taking most of his weight on his knees and allowing John to spread his legs a bit more, and lets it wander beneath the base of John’s cock, down lower to where his bollocks are already drawing up closer to his body in preparation for orgasm. John takes in a deep breath, struggling to keep himself from coming at the first, somewhat tentative touch. His balls have always been sensitive - one of his old girlfriends in uni used to say it was the easiest way to make him come - and he can’t help moaning when Sherlock palms them almost experimentally, lifting them in his cupped hand like he’s trying to weigh them. But no, he settles for rubbing the pads of his finger just behind, over the perineum, and John bucks so hard he nearly throws Sherlock off all together. 

“Fuck! Jesus fucking… _Sherlock_.”

“Hmm, you liked that,” Sherlock murmurs, sounding fascinated. He does it again, lighter this time, a fleeting, teasing touch. His lips curve into an approving smile.

“Yes, now harder,” John gasps. “Do that again, with your hand, and fuck… Fuck!” He’s shivering all over, his belly tightening, cock firming in Sherlock’s grasp. All it takes is one more press directly over the head and John moans as he comes hard, spilling all over Sherlock’s hand, crotch and belly. Sherlock’s eyes go wide and he looks at the semen with interest, releasing John’s balls so that he can scoop up a little on his finger and test the consistency.

And then he pops his finger into his mouth.

“Good god.” In spite of the fact that he’s just come John feels a distinct twitch of interest. 

“What?” Sherlock blinks down at him, uncertain. “Not good?”

“Very good.” John reaches up, tangling his hand into that nest of wild curls, and yanks Sherlock down into a heated kiss. He can’t help it. Much as he doesn’t want to scare Sherlock away, _not_ kissing him after that is simply not an option. Fortunately Sherlock doesn’t seem to mind. He willingly wiggles closer and tilts his head to a better angle, opening his mouth when John urges him to. 

They kiss for several long, slow minutes until John feels something hard pressed against his thigh. He reluctantly breaks off the kiss and takes a minute just to look at his gorgeous lover. Sherlock’s eyes are slightly dilated and a flush has been painted across his cheeks, staining the pale skin. His hair is mussed, the curls hanging haphazardly around his eyes, and he’s breathing hard. One of his hands rests on John’s bare shoulder and the other is tightly fisted against his thigh. In between his legs, there’s a noticeable bulge that only seems to grow when Sherlock notices John’s perusal.

He wants to touch but he’s still conscious of what caused this problem in the first place. He says, “Can I?” and is pleased when his voice doesn’t waver with desire.

There’s a pause during which Sherlock just stares at him. “What would you do if I said no?”

Jesus. John really wants to track down every person who has ever done something to make Sherlock this apprehensive about being abandoned. But he realizes that Sherlock is just being Sherlock: he’s experimenting, trying to find the boundaries of something that is entirely new to him, but that doesn’t make it any less frustrating to know that Sherlock still doubts this, still doubts him. He closes his eyes briefly and then looks squarely at Sherlock. “I would be sad,” he says quietly, “and yes, a little frustrated, but it would be fine. It’s all fine, Sherlock.”

“John,” Sherlock says, and he sounds almost hesitant, “Will you touch me?”

“Yes,” John says, knowing that the relief in his voice must be blatantly obvious. It feels a little bit like a win. “Yes, of course, wherever you want.” He studies Sherlock, who still looks somewhat anxious, and has another idea. “Why don’t you show me what you like? I’ll touch you wherever you want, but first... show me.”

Where this sort of thing would normally make a virgin fairly nervous, Sherlock’s eyes light up. He does so love being praised when he shows off. He opens his trousers and pushes his pants down, letting his cock spring free. John drinks in the sight greedily and feels his hands twitch with the urge to wrap his fingers around it. The memory of Sherlock crying out and coming underneath him is still burned vividly into his mind and John wants to make it happen again. But he restrains the urge – he’ll sit on his hands if he has to.

Sherlock starts slow, just wrapping his hands around the base. As he slides his hand forward to the tip, he lets his fingers graze the fraenulum and a moan escapes him, back arching a little. John licks his lips, mouth suddenly dry, unable to take his eyes off of that cock and the fingers so tenderly curled around it. It seems that Sherlock likes to tease himself a little; he keeps the pulls slow until he’s squirming on John’s lap, grinding his arse down onto John’s knees, pitiful little whimpers escaping his mouth. Only then does he speed up, now twisting his thumb around the tip.

“John,” he says, voice practically a sob, and he grabs John’s hand and pulls it up to his chest, “please touch me.”

\---

The touch of John's hand against his chest still makes Sherlock gasp even though he knows it's coming. His eyes flutter shut and his hand trembles around his cock, his pace slowing until he's barely moving. He can hear John's heavy breathing and feel the way the firm thighs are trembling under his bottom. His nostrils are filled with the almost sweet scent in the air of musk and sweat and sex. John's hand is shaking a little, not from a tremor but because John is nervous about being allowed to touch even though it must be obvious how much Sherlock wants it. He lets out a soft moan rise in his throat and slide out his lips, echoing in the air, filling the room up until he hears John's choked off sound and firm fingers close around his nipple.

"God," John says, "God you are so fucking gorgeous. Come on, Sherlock, I want to _see_." He sounds a little desperate, his fingers tugging roughly, apparently remembering that Sherlock enjoys it a little harder, that the sharp, not quite pain of being filled roughly had nearly sent him over the edge before they'd really begun. Sherlock pants for breath, body shuddering, and starts to move his hand again.

It's good, so good, much better than it was that night. John is below him, a sated expression on his strong face, blue eyes locked onto Sherlock's face. His right hand is touching Sherlock's nipples, sliding back and forth and patiently coaxing each little nub to maximum hardness, while the other roams freely, sliding up across Sherlock's shoulders and collarbones, touching his throat, flowing down his shoulder blades and spine until it cups his bottom, finger sliding daringly between his cheeks. There's a certain amount of hesitancy in each move, like John's not sure how far he can go, like he thinks Sherlock might leap off of his lap and run away. As though Sherlock could walk away from _this_.

His whole body is on fire and he can hardly breathe; the overwhelming, consuming sensation from before but this time there's less to keep track of, only his own reactions and John's telling fascination with watching and helping Sherlock drive himself closer. Sherlock can see it in his face, how much John loves this, and that is perhaps what finally pushes him over the edge. He tips his head back and cries out, a harsh sound that might be John's name, and spills over his hand and across John's belly, their seed mixing together. John's hands leave off and clasp him about the hips, keeping him from tipping over backwards, gently tilting him forward until he slumps against John, nestling against his chest with his knees tucked up to the side. 

"Shh," John murmurs, stroking his hair. "Shh, Sherlock, it's alright."

At first he wants to demand to know why John is acting so patronizing but then he realizes that he's shaking, even though it's not at all cold in the room. So he settles instead for lifting his nose and pushing it behind John's ear, where the smell of John is at its strongest, a little sweat and musk and bitterness, a personal collection just for Sherlock. He stays there for a while, just breathing in, while John keeps petting him. Eventually John reaches out and grabs the nearest article of clothing so that he can clean them up a little. The fact that it's his jumper doesn't seem to bother him, as he tosses it somewhere over Sherlock's head before reclining back against the sofa with a satisfied sigh.

"Good?" Sherlock asks, the almost plaintive question out before he can stop it. He wants to know, though. Did John find that boring? It wasn't anything at all like what they did together that first name. "I know you didn't penetrate me but if you give me a few days I'm sure I could work my way up to it again. Technically it wasn't painful and I - " He stops abruptly because John is shaking underneath him. With laughter.

"Oh Sherlock." Shaking his head, John pecks him on the nose. Sherlock draws back, a bit offended, and crosses his eyes like he can see where the kiss landed. John just smiles even more broadly. "That wasn't boring, you git. I know that's what you were thinking. I'd challenge you to find a living bloke who could ever think that _that_ was boring. I don't care if I ever stick my cock up your pretty arse again. You don't have to work your way up to it if you don't want to. There's nothing wrong with what we just did. In fact I happen to think it was pretty bloody brilliant."

Sherlock is torn between blushing at the "pretty arse" comment and deducing John to make sure he's telling the truth. He eventually goes for the latter and is a little disconcerted to realize John is telling the truth. "So if I don't want to have sex..." he says, just to be sure.

One of John's hands idly strokes his thigh. "Then you tell me and I back off. You don't have to force yourself to go through with it."

"And if I want to just..." He gestures at the sofa.

"If you want to just sit and cuddle that's fine too." John's mouth twitches as the face Sherlock makes at the idea of either of them cuddling. "I mean it, Sherlock. I don't ever want to find out that you're forcing yourself to do anything just for my benefit, not like this. That's not how sex works, at least not in my world." He kisses Sherlock gently, wiping the scowl away. 

"I... apologize," Sherlock says stiffly, knowing that he's hurt John with the assumption that John would leave if he didn't get sex. 

John blinks at him, surprised, and then grins. "Apology accepted," he says and slaps Sherlock's arse. "Now get up you git. Our tea has gone cold and I'm going to make some more, and then we're going to sit down and I'll watch telly while you pretend you don't like me rubbing your head."

The sofa feels a bit cold under Sherlock's bare arse, especially when John stands up and stretches his arms above his head. But the view is excellent, allowing him to see John's back and buttocks and thighs, all muscled and lightly tanned, all his. He finds himself thinking about the next time, when he'll be able to catalogue even more of John's data, and feels warm all over when John shoots him a warm look as he walks into the kitchen. Perhaps this won't be so bad after all.


End file.
